Daughter of Satan

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Never fear! I would subdue you. I would have you meek and loving . . . a perfect wife before the week were out.’

  She felt bruised and wounded, humiliated beyond endurance. He did excite her; she knew the truth now, which was that she half hated, half delighted in his love-making; and that was a shameful conclusion for her to come to.

  She was all contrasts during the weeks that followed. She was terrified that there would be a child and yet, at times, she longed that this might be. She pictured herself saying to him: ‘For the child’s sake, then . . .’ And she thought of all the attendant excitement which would follow such a decision.

  But then her pride arose – that she, whom people had been afraid to cross, even when she was a child, should be so treated, so humiliated, as though she were any low serving girl to be taken at the master’s caprice!

  No! Fiercely she hated him and what he had done to her; and now again she was terrified that there would be a child.

  There was no child.

  She mocked him when he came to the house.

  ‘When do you sail?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘the next time I sail will be with you up the Thames to London Town.’

  She laughed exultantly. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that when the ships sail out you will be with them.’

  ‘Oddly enough,’ he answered, ‘I would rather marry you. I have had my fill of the sea; you, I have just tasted.’

  ‘I hate your coarse words, and I should never have consented to marry you even if there had been a child. But there will be no child.’

  She laughed loud and long to see his dismay. He understood at last that she had meant what she said when she had told him she hated him.

  He sailed away that summer, and she told herself that she was glad.

  But when – only a few weeks after he had been at sea – a ship came limping into the Sound with the news that it was the only one which had escaped after an attack by Algerian or Turkish pirates, she was on the quay with the rest of the town; and her pride suddenly broke when she heard that Bartle was one of those who had not returned.

  FIVE

  IT WAS TAMAR’S wedding night.

  She was twenty-three years old – old enough to be married – and she thought of the last three years as dull and uneventful.

  She had been twenty years old when she had heard that Bartle was lost. The men from that ship which had limped back to Plymouth explained that they had been outnumbered three to one in the Bay of Biscay, and aboard the attacking forces were fierce pirates – Turks or Algerians. Bartle’s ship had been fired and all loot taken before it was sunk. It was a fate he had risked many times and now it had overtaken him.

  She was numb and listless during those days which had followed. She could not analyse her feelings for Bartle. Her hatred had been fierce because he had so deeply humiliated her. Twice he had tricked her; twice he had cheated her; and he had mocked her mercilessly. He was every bit as cruel as the men who had killed him, and yet . . . how could she understand this feeling which was now hers? Why was it that she hated the bright and shining water which had taken him? Why was it that all the excitement had gone from her life? Was it because there was no one in it who seemed worthy of her hatred?

  Whenever a ship came in, she was one of the first to take her stand on Barbican Causeway. She would shade her eyes and watch it as it came towards the land. Surely he must have escaped! He was too young to die. And it was impossible to imagine him dead. She would never be able to do that.

  She was restless, yet subdued. There were times when she seemed not to hear, if people spoke to her. Richard was anxious about her, suspecting that she regretted not having married Bartle.

  She would not let herself believe that she yearned for that tempestuous existence which marriage with him would have been. How ironical that by marrying him she could have saved him from taking that fatal journey. That first shameful occasion, so she had believed at the time, had saved Richard’s life; the second, Humility’s; and now, there could be no doubt that, had she given herself to Bartle for ever, she would have saved his.

  Often she was at the Tylers’ cottage. Annis had another boy now, and at Humility’s suggestion they had christened him Restraint. In the old days Tamar would have laughed at that, for the healthy boy, pulling greedily at his mother’s breasts, seemed to her most incongruously named. But she had, she realized, little laughter left in her.

  Annis in her cottage home, with John a devout Puritan and most faithful husband, was a contented woman. It was irritating to contemplate such contentment, and to envy Annis her home and children just as she envied Richard his calm outlook on life, Humility his faith. This was a strange state for a girl to be in, particularly when a little while ago her life had seemed to be all excitement and pleasure.

  Shortly after that day when Bartle had sailed away, Richard put into action a plan which had long been in his mind. He had always taken a keen interest in Humility Brown and had not cared to see him doing rough work under Jubin; he had, therefore, decided that it would be a good plan if Humility – who was a good penman and general scholar – took some of the burden of his estates off his shoulders. Humility was naturally delighted with the change of occupation; and Richard pointed out that he must leave the draughty outhouse for which he had been so grateful when he had first been given work, and one of the attics should be made ready for him. This would not only be more comfortable, but more in keeping with his new status.

  It was now that a change seemed to come over Humility. He glowed with something more than his faith. He had some of his meals with Richard and Tamar, and it was one day when they were at supper in the winter parlour that he explained his newly found elation.

  ‘I am a happy man,’ he declared, his eyes shining with gratitude as they rested on Richard. ‘I had thought my desires were sinful, but now I know them to be favoured by the Lord. When my friends sailed away to Virginia and left me behind with Will Spears and Spears’ boy, I was filled with regret and, in spite of constant prayers, I could not purge my mind of sorrow because I had missed an opportunity of reaching the new land. “Humility Brown,” I said to myself, “if it had been God’s will that you should have gone, to Virginia, do you think He would have sent you into plague-stricken Plymouth?” I knew that it was God’s will that I should not go to Virginia then. And I prayed nightly that I might be resigned to my fate. But I hankered. I yearned. I thought of my friends, leading the new life in the new country where they did not find it necessary to creep away and in secret worship God. Oh, to be free and unafraid and to lift up mine eyes to the hills and say “Holy, Holy, Holy . . .”’

  Tamar watched him critically. A born preacher, he was ever carried away by words, and that was a vanity in him surely. He loved the sound of his own voice as dearly as she loved the sight of her face. She would taunt him with that one day when she felt in the mood to do so.

  Humility caught the look in her eyes and said: ‘Forgive me. I grow excited, I fear. I am excited. My mind is filled with what I believe to be a message from on High. I have a notion that it may well, after all, be God’s will that I go to Virginia. Sir, you have made it possible for me to feed and clothe myself and, by your generous payment, to save money which will enable me to go to the promised land.’

  ‘So,’ said Richard, ‘that is what you plan. To save, and when you are ready and the opportunity comes, to sail away.’

  Humility’s eyes gleamed. ‘Ships often come to Plymouth. It is possible to get to Virginia if you have a little money. I rejoice. I see that the Lord did not intend me to miss the promised land.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Tamar with a sparkle of her old mischief, ‘you have been delayed as a punishment, but it may be that, like Moses of old, your sins have been such that it is considered just that you never reach your promised land.’

  ‘That may well be,’ agreed Humility.

  ‘Then you must have sinned greatly – and I wonder how.’

 
That evening she threw off some of her listlessness. She was interested in something once more: Humility’s going to Virginia!

  She would interrupt him at his work as he sat, quill in hand, and make him talk about Virginia. He was easily tempted to such talk, and it amused her afterwards to see his remorse for the wasted time.

  ‘To steal time,’ she teased remorselessly, ‘is as bad as stealing goods. You know that, Humility?’

  ‘You are a temptress!’ he said.

  And she laughed. Then he whispered a prayer.

  ‘Shall you wear a hair shirt for this?’ she asked; and she was pleased because she could feel amused, teasing Humility Brown.

  But when he did not appear at meals next day and she understood he was fasting, she felt sorry for what she had done. Then she discovered that as well as amusement she could feel regret; and it seemed significant that Humility Brown should be the one to make her feel that life was not so dreary after all.

  Sometimes they would have serious conversations together. He seemed more human now that he had a goal to work for, and she took an interest in his mounting savings. She would have liked to have given him money, but she knew he would not accept that. He worked assiduously. There never was such a worker, Richard declared, never such a man for denying himself comfort.

  ‘If he were not such a fanatic he would be a great man, I think,’ said Tamar.

  ‘Great men are often fanatics,’ Richard reminded her.

  Annis and John were saving too. Their simple faith shone in their faces. They were going one day, under the guidance of Humility Brown and accompanied by most of those who joined with them to worship God in secret meeting places, to the new promised land.

  ‘So,’ Tamar had demanded angrily, ‘you would leave me, would you, Annis?’

  But Annis shook her head. ‘Mistress, perhaps you will be among those who go with us.’

  ‘I? Why . . . the Puritans would not have me.’

  ‘They would, mistress, if you were a Puritan.’

  ‘You talk like Humility Brown!’ snapped Tamar.

  ‘Ah, mistress, if you could but know the peace and joy that has come to me and John! We be saved. Think of it. Happiness has come to us, mistress. I pray on my knees every night that it will come to you.’

  Tamar left the cottage that day and rode on the moors. The wind caught her long hair as she rode. Here was the spot where Bartle had caught up with her; here he had seized her bridle and laughed up into her face. Now . . . she was alone on the moors and he was alone on the bed of the sea.

  She dismounted and tied her horse to a bush. Then she threw herself on to the grass and sobbed brokenheartedly. She thought of Annis and John Tyler, and mostly she thought of Humility Brown. What was it these people had that she had not? Faith! Belief that their souls were saved. Belief in a future life so that what happened here on Earth was of no moment. What an enviable state to be in!

  When she was back at the house, she pinned up her hair – not in an elaborate style, but looped over her ears and made into a knot at the nape of her neck. The effect was startling, for she looked almost demure. She was aware of the look of approval which crossed the face of Humility Brown when he saw her.

  Annis too was pleased to see her thus. They sat by the chimney-piece in the cottage, and the children – Christian, Restraint and Prudence – played at their feet.

  ‘Annis,’ said Tamar, ‘can you truly say that you have never been so happy in your life?’

  ‘I truly can,’ said Annis.

  ‘But why should a new way of worshipping God make you happy?’

  ‘Because ’tis the only true right way,’ answered Annis.

  ‘Are you right . . . I wonder?’

  Annis knelt at Tamar’s feet. ‘Mistress, come to us. Come to our meetings. Listen to the good words and then see if you cannot find the peace which has come to John and me.’

  ‘Annis, you must know that when you are in your meeting place you may be discovered at any time. That may mean prison. John may be taken from you and the children. How can you be happy living in perpetual fear?’

  ‘If John were taken we should know it was the will of the Lord. Good would come of it, for the ways of God are good.’

  ‘You might be summoned for failing to appear at church.’

  Annis nodded and smiled blissfully.

  ‘Annis, sometimes I think you are a fool. Yet you have found happiness and I have not; and since happiness is what we all seek, it must be the wise who find it.’

  ‘Mistress, cut yourself off from the Devil. You can do it. I know you are a witch, mistress. You have the powers of witchcraft, but you have never used them for ill; you are a white witch, and prayer could release you from your bondage; it could bring you safe to the arms of Jesus.’

  Her lips curled. ‘You talk like Humility Brown.’

  She could not understand what happened to her during those years – perhaps it was because that which came to her came gradually. She was not wild Tamar one day and Tamar saved the next. Each week saw a little of the old wildness passing, a little of the new quietness gained.

  Humility talked with her long and earnestly now that she had ceased to mock him. Who was she to mock? These people had faith, and faith gave them, the contentment which she lacked and longed for. She was restless, searching for something which she could never have now that Bartle was dead; and when Bartle was here she had not wanted it.

  She was twenty-three and unmarried. Soon she would be qualifying for the title of ‘ancient maid’. She longed for children. Annis had another now – little Felicity. Four children for Annis and not one for Tamar! She was fond of Annis’ children and made excuses to visit them at the cottage or have them at the house.

  But Tamar was not the sort to live through another woman’s experiences.

  She wanted this faith; she wanted to escape from restlessness; she longed to be saved so that what happened here on Earth was of no importance since her eyes would be fixed on the happy life to come.

  She told Humility this, and he went down on his knees and thanked God.

  Tamar’s conversion was more enthusiastic than anyone else’s, for she could never be half-hearted about anything she took up. Richard watched her with some amusement and a little alarm. He warned her that it was purely dissatisfaction with her present life which was at the root of her acceptance of the faith – not her belief in it. But she turned from Richard; she turned to Humility.

  She listened to him as his followers listened; he was a leader among men. His voice had a power and charm all its own. She saw the goodness in him.

  ‘Oh, Humility,’ she cried. ‘I know that what happens to me here matters not. It is the life to come for which we must prepare ourselves.’

  He embraced her and they knelt in prayer together. The miracle had happened. Tamar was saved.

  And then, one day, Humility said an astonishing thing.

  ‘Tamar.’ He had ceased to call her ‘daughter’. ‘Tamar, it is the greatest joy the Lord could have given me, to see you turn towards the Truth. You are at peace now. That is natural. But I have had a revelation concerning you. It is this: You are unfulfilled. You are meant to be the mother of children. You are released from the bonds of Satan. God is good; He is all-powerful and through His divine help I have been enabled to free you, for the power of the Devil compared with that of God is like a candle flame to the sun. I could lead you to contentment, to true happiness – which is the suppression of self in the service of God. Would that you would place your hand in mine and I might show you the way.’

  She held out her hand and he took it.

  ‘Tamar, I did not intend ever to give way to the carnal lusts of the flesh . . . nor will I. But I have seen a new life opening before me. In the new land to which I hope to go, we shall need children . . . good, strong, noble children of the Puritan faith to carry on the work we have started. Each woman should do her share; she must give herself a chance to show her fertility. Each man must do l
ikewise. There need be no lust in a good man and a good woman coming together in matrimony.’

  She drew away from him. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘That you and I marry and, in the grace of holy wedlock, have children to the glory of God and our faith.’

  She felt the hot colour in her face. She was shocked by the suggestion; yet this was the answer to her problem. She longed for children, and in having Humility Brown’s children she would help to populate the promised land to which one day they would go.

  At last there could be a purpose in living. Perhaps for this reason Humility Brown had been sent to Plymouth; perhaps for this reason she had saved his life. At this moment it all seemed so right, so simple and natural.

  ‘I will marry you,’ she said.

  Afterwards she thought of what must be lived through before she reached that happy state of seeing her children round her, contented in a strange land, and she was afraid.

  Dreams came to her as she lay in bed. Once she imagined that the curtains round her bed parted. That was a fancy; but she pursued it, and Bartle was standing by her bed. He said: ‘How can you marry that . . . Puritan! I will not let you!’ And in the dream she felt his hands caress her.

  Then she jumped out of bed and prayed solemnly and earnestly for the purification of her body and the salvation of her soul.

  Queer dreams persisted – fearful dreams of anger and passion.

  What have I done? she asked herself. How can I marry Humility Brown?

  Richard was against the marriage, and he said so firmly. It was like mating a bird of paradise with a crow.

  ‘You have hurried into this with your usual impetuosity. I know you well – better than you know yourself. You have been depressed – not yourself – and you have been searching for a new interest in life. All this talk of going to Virginia has fired your imagination. I would to God . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Tell me. I want to know.’

  ‘Oh, it is foolish of us to make plans for others. I was merely wishing that I had insisted on a father’s right, and married you to Bartle. He would not then have gone away and . . .’